


Forget Me Not

by Johniarty



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alchemy, Angst, Body Hair, Dark Magic, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Nudity, Pining, Scent Kink, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22329751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: Jaskier searches out Geralt - the only Witcher he knows, and the only alchemist he trusts - to brew him a potion to stave off his nightly memory loss. His heart still bears the scars from his banishment after Borch's complete dressing down of Geralt, but he has no other options. Geralt, for all his fury and fire at their parting, has missed the foolish bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 138





	1. Seeking The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChloeWinchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWinchester/gifts).



> Hey everyone! This chapter isn't explicit, but it will -turn- explicit so I'll update the rating and warnings then. 
> 
> And if you want to hear the song, it's [**THIS**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDN8yYWAZI4).
> 
> It’s Elsa’s Song, by Joey Batey’s band The Amazing Devil (the other member is Madeleine Hyland and her voice is JUST as amazing as his dbdjsbxbdbsjcjxbdbd I LOVE THEM). I haven’t been able to get it out of my head with regards to Jaskier and Geralt, and I’ve been writing song fic for another fandom event, so this is what comes of that. 
> 
> It’ll be 3-4 chapters!

Geralt sat on a log eating a slightly overcooked venison shank, watching as Roach filled his belly with damp grass. He’d been riding hard for days in pursuit of a bog hag troubling nearby villages - both of them deserved the rest. It was peaceful and calm. Birds called to each other from the boughs of the great thick trees, insects hummed as they darted across the standing water, and Geralt was met with companionable silence the few times he felt the need to speak. It’d be downright idyllic — if it weren’t for hag. 

A twig snapped behind him. He grabbed his silver sword and stood, whirling gracefully, bringing the blade up in a defensive pose.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier was done up, far more so than usual. His doublet double-laced, his breeches loose, his boots fine but clearly worn from travel. Filavandrel’s lute hung across his back as always, but the carefree and flirty air that normally followed the bard was gone. His beautiful eyes were dark and haunted, unable to meet Geralt’s for more than a fleeting glance. Something was wrong. 

“Jaskier. What is it?”

He licked his lips and scratched at the jagged tips of his fingernails, working up the courage to speak. Geralt could see he’d been biting them. There was dirt built up in his cuticles, something the Jaskier he remembered wouldn’t have allowed to happen. Even his hair, normally meticulously cared for, seemed brittle and dry. Jaskier hadn’t been taking care of himself. Nothing about meeting him like this felt right.

“As much as it pains me to say it,” he stammered, ”I, I find myself in need of your help.”

“Hrm.”

Jaskier reached into his satchel and produced a handful of pale violet-colored flowers. Small, with a burst of yellow at their core, the forget-me-nots were unmistakable.

“You are the only Witcher I’ve ever met, and as such… you’re the only alchemist I trust. I need you to brew a potion with these. Something to stave off memory loss.”

“Why?”

Sighing, Jaskier ran a hand through his messy russet locks. 

“I’ve… I’ve been waking up in strange places. No memory of how I got there, my body aching, feeling as if I’ll be sick. Usually I am. My clothes are a mess, and I’m.”

He stopped and forced himself to meet Geralt’s yellow eyes.

“Geralt. I’m covered in blood. Tacky, cold blood. Every time.”

Geralt held his gaze. His jaw tightened. The shift was almost imperceptible, but Jaskier had traveled by his side for some twenty-odd years. He recognized the worry.

“When do you wake?”

“Ah… At random intervals. Some days with the dawn, others well into the afternoon. There’s no consistency or pattern, I’m just. Suddenly conscious.”

Geralt took the flowers from him and tucked them into his own bag. 

“And you want to remember what’s happened.”

Jaskier gave a little nod.

“... This truly has you scared.”

“Of course it does! What if I’m being controlled? What if I’m killing people? I need to know! I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t have sought you out if it - if I could trust anyone else not to throw me in a dungeon or burn me at the stake. Geralt, I know you don’t want me around, so if you do this? I can pay. Two hundred orens - “

With one swift move, Geralt shoved him against the trunk of a nearby tree. He pressed close to Jaskier, holding his gaze. The wind shifted, leaves rustling, drowning out all other sounds. Geralt took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling Jaskier’s scent. 

_ Sweat. Fear. Sorrow. Arousal.  _

_ The acrid stench of dark magic.  _

“Jaskier. You don’t need to pay me.”

His monotone voice rumbled in his chest. Jaskier couldn’t help the shiver that ran along his spine. In the three years since their parting, he’d fought to keep his mind clear of any lingering thoughts of the Witcher. Geralt made it perfectly clear that whatever they’d shared was over. He hadn’t expected it to hurt so badly. The wound felt fresh with Geralt so near. The urge to touch him, to feel the rough scruff beneath his soft palm, was nearly overwhelming.

“We’re friends.”

“Oh no, no we are not,” Jaskier replied, his voice faltering. By Melitele, did Geralt really consider them such after the way he’d treated him in the mountain? “You made that point fairly certain. And final. If you aren’t going to take my coin -”

“You’re cursed. I can smell the magic on you. Underneath your cologne, your tears, and the unmistakable aroma of your arousal. Whoever put you under their spell isn’t far behind you. You’re being watched.  _ We’re _ being watched. I’ll brew your potion, Jaskier, but I’m coming with you. A sorcerer using you as a proxy… That’s something we can’t allow.”

“My - wait, they followed me?” Jaskier whispered. They could deal with Geralt’s strange appraisal of his scent later. All that mattered now was shaking the dark caster stalking him.

“The Forget-Me-Not serum will take a day to brew. Stay with me. Stay at camp. I need you to distract them.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Do what you always do,” Geralt said. “Sing.”

Jaskier’s heart ached. Geralt hated his singing. If anything he wanted him to annoy the sorcerer for a while.

“Of course, sir Witcher. Why hadn’t I thought of that.” 

Geralt let out another slow breath. He leaned closer, his catlike eyes appraising every twitch of the bard’s face. Jaskier’s heart nearly beat itself out of his chest. It wasn’t fair. This intimacy, this erotically-charged moment expanding between them that threatened to swallow him whole, Geralt hadn’t earned the right. 

“... I have missed your voice.”

Jaskier’s legs wobbled as Geralt stepped back, putting space between them once more. That was as close to an apology as he’d get. It wasn’t good enough but it would have to do. He needed a reason, any reason, to trust Geralt again. 

Geralt returned to his seat and set his meal aside. From the depths of his bag he drew his brewing tools. It needed to ferment beneath the light of the dawn, so he’d have to keep the fire going all night. No sleep, then - not that he needed any. The strange circumstances of Jaskier’s sleepwalking were far more interesting than hunting a hag. 

Jaskier cleared his throat and drew up his lute. Circling the camp, making sure Geralt was obscured from sight, he began to play a somber tune.

_ “Your voice it carries over  _

_ The hubbub and the hum  _

_ And it paints the sky and circles high  _

_ Like the beating of a drum  _

_ You will scream ‘I won’t forget you’  _

_ But I’ll cover my cold ears  _

_ It cannot be a lie  _

_ If no-one hears…” _

His soft, warm voice carried his melancholic tune through the bog, echoing off the trees. Geralt glanced up from his brewing stand. The words stung. As often as he’d chided Jaskier for his annoying songs and silly lyrics, he truly did find his voice beautiful. And soothing. He hadn’t realized their parting would affect the happy-go-lucky fool. He’d lashed out in his frustration, at his lack of control, at losing Yen’s trust, at being made a fool by Borch in front of Yen and Jaskier. In his heart Geralt knew he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t change the past.

All he could do was make amends. Change their future. 

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“... Come help me with the tent. It’s going to rain soon.”

Sighing, Jaskier trailed off and put away his lute. 

“That’s all? You want me to help with the tent? I thought you missed my voice.”

“You can sing when we’re safely out of the rain.”

He stopped mere inches from where Geralt stood. 

“Are you… inviting me to share your shelter, Geralt?”

“Mhm.”

“V-very w-w-well,” Jaskier stuttered, his cheeks flushing pink. “Can’t really say no to that, can I?”

“You could. But you won’t.”

“No. I won’t.


	2. Dawning Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The intimacy of the tent gives Geralt and Jaskier time to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! My artistic motivation has been... blegh. I really hope you like this chapter. A huge shoutout to [Avilion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avilion)for beta'ing and helping me shape this _and_ the first chapter up!

Geralt’s tent was more like a lean-to then something with proper protection or something magical. Yennefer’s spacious, furnished tent sounded like heaven to Jaskier, but just being close to Geralt was good enough. It would keep them out of the damp and some of the wind, and shield them from prying eyes.

Jaskier stretched out on his bedroll and curled into a ball to save space… And though he’d never admit it aloud, to hide his blush from Geralt. Sharing his tent meant being incredibly close to Geralt, closer than he’d been even in their last year of traveling together. Geralt joined him, tossing a woolen blanket onto the grass beside him, trying to ignore how small and sad Jaskier looked, but how could he? With the strange occurrences surrounding the bard’s sleepwalking and the unknown sorcerer following him, Geralt was  _ worried  _ about him

With a whisper and a symbol traced into the air, a barrier sprang up around them. Geralt lay back and tucked his arms beneath his head. They had protection and privacy - now he needed to get the bard to open up.

“Jaskier. Talk to me.”

“I’ve said all I needed to.”

“I know you. Your silence is more telling than your usual unfettered flow of words. Is this about the sleepwalking?”

A soft sigh sounded beside him.

“... No. That scares the hell out of me, but no.”

“The mountains then,” Geralt said, working out the things Jaskier refuses to say. “You mentioned it in passing. I… I hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier replied flatly. “Yeah, you did. Stunning powers of perception, is that part of the whole… Witchering process?”

Geralt ignored his snide remark. He deserved it. 

“After Borch fell, were you asking me to run away with you?” He chose his words carefully, feeling out the path to open Jaskier’s troubled thoughts. 

“Obviously.”

Geralt hummed thoughtfully and turned his head to stare at Jaskier’s back. He didn’t understand him. Why? What good would that do either of them?

“... As friends?”

He was met with nothing but a still, telling silence. 

“Hrm.”

A confirmation. He understood then. Jaskier held feelings for him. Sexual, at least, if not romantic. He assumed that much but he wanted to hear him say it.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

Jaskier mumbled something under his breath that Geralt couldn’t quite catch. Grunting, the Witcher rolled onto his side and grabbed Jaskier by the shoulder. With one rough tug he had Jaskier on his back, voice rumbling. 

“Speak up.” 

“... Because you make me  _ ache _ , you bastard! It’s not fair. To you I’m some annoying little gnat buzzing around and ruining your life, but to me you’re…”

“I’m what?” Geralt asked, sliding a hand across Jaskier’s doublet. His deft fingers toyed with the laces, and Jaskier couldn't help but stare down at them with curiosity. 

“You’re every thought on my mind. My world. You’re the only person I’ve ever desired so much it felt as if I was burning alive. But you have Yen, and I have… nothing. No one. Only you, and you hate me.”

As he untied the laces Geralt sighed again. Jaskier didn’t understand. He didn’t  _ comprehend _ . 

“I lashed out at you because I was angry at myself,” he began. The laces gave him enough of an excuse to pace himself, to spill everything he’d held back over the years. 

“At Yennefer. And at Borch, if I’m being honest. I fucked up and hated myself for being such a fool.” Geralt grunted. Speaking the truth he’d kept buried was like trying to pry an arrow from his skin.

“I couldn’t ruin you, too. I couldn’t watch you grow to hate me. I needed to cut you off, because... I’m selfish.”

“... I suppose you’re a big enough ass I can believe that. Are you  _ undressing _ me?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier tried to sit up but Geralt’s firm hand shoved him back on the blanket.

“Do you really ache for me, Julian?”

For a moment he stopped breathing. Geralt used his  _ name _ . Not his performing name, but his actual name. He was certain he’d only heard it once, when he flirted rather poorly with the warriors aiding Borch. Geralt… listened? He remembered?

He  _ did _ care. That was, in Jaskier’s eyes, the best apology Geralt could have offered.

Jaskier didn’t bother resisting. He stared at Geralt with wonder and lust, heart beating itself raw against his ribs.

“Yes,” he breathed. “More than anything. Any _ one _ .”

Geralt slipped his doublet off and set it aside. He started unbuttoning Jaskier’s breeches, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Jaskier’s stunned expression delighted him - he looked so young, so innocent, as he stared at Geralt. Almost childlike, naive and far too curious for their own good. Most humans seemed that way to Geralt, after nearly two hundred years of life, but with Jaskier it was endearing. 

He pulled his breeches down, baring his pale legs to the lantern light. Covered in dark hair, toned and soft, Geralt couldn’t help but touch them. From his thighs down to his calves Geralt’s hands stroked his skin. He let out a soft whimper and dragged his teeth over his bottom lip.

“Oh, Geralt…”

“Nothing underneath… Naughty boy.”

Jaskier’s cheeks flushed with arousal. Something about the teasing way Geralt chided him made his cock twitch in the cool air. He licked his lips and shifted beneath his gaze. 

“I, I had to dress rather quickly - I woke up naked again, and…”

Geralt worked his undershirt off as well, adding it to the growing pile of Jaskier’s discarded clothes. His chest was just as hairy as his legs. Unlike Geralt’s downy hair, Jaskier’s was longer and thicker. He leaned in close and kissed Jaskier’s breast, letting his hair tickle the skin of his jaw.

“Look at you… I expected you to be hairless and soft. Like a boy on the cusp of manhood.”

“How young do you think I am?!”

“Human ages start to blur together after the first century,” Geralt teased, his voice as monotonous and even as it always was. If Jaskier hadn’t known him as well as he did he wouldn’t have been able to tell Geralt was being playful.

But he did. He could. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile up at him.

“You’re not stopping, are you? I’m not too manly for you? I can shave, if you’d like.”

“No. I want you as you are. Like this. A man, legs wrapped around my waist, sweating and grunting…”

As he spoke Geralt pulled off his black linen shirt. He was a vision in nothing but his leather pants, clinging to every curve of his muscle. Jaskier stared with open hunger. He reached out and caressed Geralt’s thick thigh over the smooth material, marveling at the feel of his taut muscle.

“That isn’t  _ fair _ ,” Jaskier whined, turning his big blue eyes up to Geralt. “Somehow this is even more erotic than when I bathe you. Maybe it’s the leather…”

He pulled Geralt close and pressed his face against the travel-worn leather, mouthing over the stiffening cock beneath. He reeked of sweat and horse, of musk and earth, and Jaskier let out a greedy little moan as he nuzzled against his groin. Geralt reached down and tangled his fingers in his hair. He tugged his head back from the almost feral attention Jaskier was paying to his prick.

“Let me finish.”

“I’m honestly trying,” Jaskier breathed, “but you made me stop.”

“Finish  _ undressing _ ,” Geralt replied with a grunt.

He gave Jaskier a small shove, knocking him back down to his back. With their eyes locked together he unfastened his riding trousers and tugged them down his thick thighs. Jaskier was the first to look away - staring into the depths of Geralt’s eyes as he stripped seemed too intimate. It made the moment feel fragile, as if acknowledging what was happening would make him wake from a perfect dream. Jaskier couldn’t avoid it forever. He just needed a moment to breathe. 

He took a slow breath and forced himself to look back.

No matter how many times he saw Geralt naked before, it couldn’t compare to this. The tease, the anticipation, the electricity between them charging the air in the small tent.

No matter how much he’d longed for Geralt, it felt one-sided. Their shared baths weren’t sexual despite his arousal or naked hunger. This, however, was. 

Jaskier reached up and tugged down the linen protecting his thighs and cock from chafing, baring Geralt’s erection to the cool air. Thick, long, and uncut, the sight was enough to make him salivate.

“You’re bigger than I remember.”

“Well, you never saw me hard.”

Geralt smirked as he knelt between Jaskier’s thighs. “That you knew,” he added as an afterthought.

He reached out and slid his calloused palm over Jaskier’s smooth cheek. His golden eyes glimmered in the light of the lantern, catching and holding the flames in their depths as he bent at the waist.

Soft, full lips ghosted over Jaskier’s. He chased them with a whine, but Geralt smiled and pulled back. Just barely, just enough to make his bard work for what he wanted. He pulled Jaskier in and kissed him, deep and slow, savoring the taste of his tongue. A hint of wine, the tang of citrus… His saliva sent a chill down Geralt’s spine. It tasted of years of songs unfinished and ballads woven, of laments performed in seedy taverns and the anguish of a broken heart. 

Geralt’s stubble scraped against Jaskier’s sensitive skin. He moaned and tipped his head back, letting Geralt deepen their kiss at his leisure. All he’d wanted was this - affection. Attention. Acknowledgement. He’d just wanted Geralt to  _ see _ , to  _ understand  _ what his words couldn’t communicate.

His need. His ache. His love. 

“I know,” Geralt growled, feeling Jaskier’s heart racing. “I know, Little Lark. Don’t think anymore tonight. Just… feel.”

He grabbed a vial from his bag and popped the cork free. Jaskier eyed it curiously.

“What’s that?”

“Oil. My own.” 

Geralt poured it over his fingers and reached between Jaskier’s parted thighs. He traced along the cleft of his ass, teasing his cunt as he trailed soft kisses along Jaskier’s jaw. Jaskier gasped and ran his hands through Geralt’s white hair, eagerly thrusting against his hand, trying to force him inside.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered. “Be patient. We have all -”

Thunder crashed above them. A powerful wind blasted the tent apart and sent Geralt flying into the mud. He landed with a grunt, the bottle breaking beneath him. It was too strong to raise his head against, but he didn’t need to see - he could  _ smell  _ the magic, that familiar acrid scent that clung to Jaskier.

The sorcerer found them. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted, but the wind was too fierce. The storm raged above their campsite, pelting him with rain and small hailstones as he crawled toward the tangle of cloth and ropes. All that mattered was reaching Jaskier. Lightning split the dark night sky, casting shadows on the wreckage. He caught sight of Filavandrel’s lute laying in the muck and his heart stopped.

As swift as it arrived the storm vanished. Snarling, Geralt pushed himself to his feet. Naked, covered in mud, he ripped the tent open. 

“Jaskier!” he repeated, desperate.

The mangled cloth was empty. His little lark was gone. 

Gearalt’s gold eyes glowed in the darkness. He let out a furious roar that echoed across the bog. He would find him. Whatever it took, he would find Jaskier and break the dark curse that had been cast upon him. 

His brewing stand lay on its side beside the smoldering remnants of the fire, the violet potion dripping into the wet earth.


End file.
